


Don't Forget

by Len0306a



Series: Forgotten but Forgiven [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Ghost Stiles Stilinski, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hurt No Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Oblivious Hannibal Lecter, Stiles Needs a Hug, mention of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14472261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Len0306a/pseuds/Len0306a
Summary: I've been struggling with a paper but there will be an update Monday/Sunday so look out for that.





	Don't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> I've been struggling with a paper but there will be an update Monday/Sunday so look out for that.

Stiles stared at the man, the agent by the name of Will Graham. He looked at Hannibal, scowling at him for picking a new toy. He was ignored, as always, as Hannibal folded his hands in his lap. The Toy walked around the room, touching books and pacing in such an annoying way. Even Stiles was annoyed, but Hannibal viewed it with adoration. Stiles walked over to Hannibal, breathing in his face, as the man still couldn’t see him. Stiles was tired and weary, silent with desperation. “Hannibal please.” Stiles said, reaching towards the doctor’s shoulder. His hand went through, straight down towards the man’s chest until Stiles stopped the pressure. It’s been like this for thirty three years. After Mischa’s death, and moving in with Robert, Hannibal forgot he existed. Although, if Stiles pushed hard enough, Hannibal heard him...Sometimes. Forcing his voice to be heard was difficult now, and exhausting as he faded. 

 

He was running out of time, His body was fading, blotchy, as he disappeared from memory and sight. One time, Hannibal had seen him. The forty-six year old man was thirty-one at the time, graduated early from another degree, and was settling down. He had walked into the study, where Stiles was sitting, and froze at the sight of him. He had asked who he was, and then Stiles disappeared from sight, once again. It was painful, knowing that maybe, if Stiles had not died from the Nogitsune possession, Hannibal would have talked to him. Looked at him like he was real, treated him humanely. Stiles sighed, turning back to The Toy, watching him talk rabidly about a case. One word caught his attention,  _ Beacon Hills. _

 

New murders in Beacon Hills, ritualistic sacrifices that spread across the town, growing and repeating. Stiles had researched the topic, and knew the cause. Darach, a magic user corrupted from dark magic that fed on other witches. From what short, pale, and neurotic was saying, the magic user was trying to increase power. Stiles wonders if he should convince Hannibal to go. Stiles knew what was in Beacon, remember Scott and Romeo and Juliet love story, Derek and his leather jacket. Maybe they would be able to help him get Hannibal back. 

 

Stiles walked back to Hannibal, lowering himself onto his knees, lips almost touching Hannibal’s ear. “Go to Beacon Hill.” Stiles projected his words, making them commanding and they echoed across the room. He repeated himself eight times before Hannibal heard him, the twitching of his fingers giving him away. Stiles smiled and exhaled, relieved that he finally managed to get through to the Ripper. Stiles remembers watching him kill, whispering in the victim’s ears to make them scream louder, and put on a better show. At first, Stiles was concerned about Hannibal’s carelessness on his first kills, but as he refined himself into a sharper sword, Stiles enjoyed the show. 

 

“Perhaps Beacon Hills might help you develop a fresh outlook on the Ripper’s latest victims.” Hannibal said, his accent purring out the words alluringly at the profiler. The man paused, raising his eyebrows at Hannibal in a clear challenge.  _ Rude _ Stiles mind hissed out, but Hannibal was  _ amused _ . Stiles bit his tongue, weighing the pros and cons of sending a wraith the the crude man’s doorstep. Hannibal would no doubt be enraged at the pale man’s death, but Stiles liked to dream. He knew why he hated William, yet he couldn’t squash the anger down. It was unfair that Will got to touch Hannibal, got to talk to the man and hear a  _ response _ , instead of being swatted away like a fly. Stiles sighed out a drawn out breath, sitting down in front of Hannibal’s italian shoes. He leaned against Hannibal’s leg, falling through to hit the chair. He didn’t push the cushioned chair back, and could barely interact with Hannibal on a good day. 

 

Stiles continued to zone out, wondering what Scott looked like, the sixteen year old boy now….Sixty-three? Stiles felt grief well up in his chest, a choking emotion that made Stiles frown. Even if Scott managed to see him, the man wouldn’t recognize him after so many years. Stiles remembers his dad, who had died long ago, from alcohol. Stiles remembered his kind smile, a drawn out  _ kiddo _ in a light voice as phantom hands ruffled his hair. Where was Peter? Did Boyd and Erica finally get married? Did Isaac finally admit to his crush on Derek? Would the angelic boy still call him  _ mom _ after all these years? Stiles felt the tears well up, slipping down his face as he thought of  _ Allison _ . She died so young, and he can never apologize to her for what he did. Stiles wallowed in his sorrows, breaking out of the depressive trance as Hannibal stood up. The man flattened out invisible wrinkles as he led The Toy to the door, a hand at the back of the empath’s spine. 

 

Stiles stood, fixing the stupid grey jacket and black hooded shirt. The Nogitsune’s death led to his own, and he was stuck in the insufferable demon’s clothes. He only wore monochromatic colors, and the drab outfit made him look like death. Which, technically he as. Dead, Stiles means. A ghost, attached to a living person, and as he was forgotten, he ceased to exist. Stiles stuck his hand through the gaping hole in his lungs, feeling around. He could feel his head moving inside his chest, but felt no pain; that was also a horrible sign, if Stiles could tell. 

 

Stiles followed Hannibal to his car, walking through the passenger door to settle in the seat.  _ Missa Solemnis _ played lightly through the speakers, Stiles relaxing as Hannibal drove calmly back to their home.  _ Hannibal’s home _ , Stiles corrected himself, he was just a squatter. An unknown entity inside Hannibal’s walls, ignored and unheard. The drive was silent, Stiles lost in thought on the way to the pompous house that screamed  _ Serial Killer _ . 

 

They walked through the door, Hannibal walking straight to his study; Stiles found that unusual, Hannibal usually made dinner once he returned home. The man wasn’t out of meat, pieces of Cassie Boyle sitting innocently in the freezer. Stiles followed Hannibal to his study, the man pulling out charcoal and a sketchbook. The man begun to sketch, and Stiles hummed. He sang songs he heard Allison sing and songs his mother sang to him when he was a child. After almost two hours, Hannibal placed the sketch cautiously on his desk. Stiles hummed a curious sound, walking over to Hannibal’s side.    
  


The cannibal sighed, caressing the edge of the paper and Stiles stared. It was a picture of  _ him _ , laughing loudly near the Baltic Sea. Mischa, Hannibal, and Stiles used to walk there together as the sun came up, the little girl singing and spinning around screaming in Lithuanian. Stiles was taught the language by the siblings early on, and remember Hannibal calling his  _ brolis.  _ “Were you real?” Hannibal asked the pages, sighing tiredly. “ _ Yes! I’m real! _ ” Stiles screamed at Hannibal, hands slamming down on the desk. The lamp rattled as his hands made a startling  _ slam _ at the impact. Hannibal froze, looking around the room as he slowly grabbed the scalpel off of his desk. 

 

“ _ Fucking see me!” _ Stiles yelled at Hannibal, grabbing the arm wielding the knife. The man jerked back, arm caught in Stiles’ hold. The man grabbed the knife with his other hand, starting to slam the knife down near his arm. His hand froze, inches from his forearm, as Stiles removed his hand as if he was burnt. Stiles wept openly, Hannibal turning towards the noise. 

 

“ _ Remember me you dick! _ ” Stiles screeched at Hannibal , throwing his hands out before pulling them towards his chest. Hannibal looked through him, slowly getting up. Stiles smiled,  _ elated  _ at finally being seen, finally being remembered. Stiles reached for Hannibal at the doctors approach, the man walking through him towards the bookshelf behind Stiles. Stiles snarled, frustrated at being ignored, and looked down.  _ The holes _ . The smallest closed, the largest, at his lung, closing almost  _ fully _ . Stiles whooped at a victory, seeing Hannibal whip around to look in his direction. Hannibal heard him, could tell he was there, but could not see him. 

 

Stiles remembered Deaton talking about Stiles being a Spark, and if he believed he could do it it, he  _ could. _ So Stiles believed, thought about Hannibal seeing him, speaking to him, touching him. Every human interaction he longed for, from Scott and Hannibal and Derek and  _ Isaac _ . He projected the belief onto Hannibal, and- and- Why?

 

Nothing happened. Hannibal remained unseeing, and Stiles broke down as the man left the room. One day, maybe. 

 

….Maybe. 

 

Maybe. 

 

_ ∆/-/-/-/∆ _

 

Stiles sat on the airplanes floor, turbulence causing him to rock and fall over. Stiles sighed, sitting up again and praying that the landing would start to become smooth. Stiles could have stayed in Baltimore, but teleporting underneath the plane and constantly falling was sickening. Stiles learned this the hard way when Hannibal traveled from Florence to Baltimore; the feeling of his feet hitting the ground, legs breaking just to heal and redo the process was extremely painful and unwanted. Stiles leaned against Hannibal’s aisle seat, feeling the man’s hand lay against his hand. Stiles brightened at the feeling, but Hannibal jerked back, hands folding in his lap, far away from Stiles. 

 

The plane started to land, the pilot’s voice ringing through the speaker, Stiles grabbing on tightly to Hannibal’s seat. Stiles felt queasy as his ass bumped against the seat, seat belts’ only for the living. Stiles was irritated by the time everyone made it to the motel, Hannibal’s distaste clear at the worn down room. Stiles remembers the building before, much more dirty and sleazy. Stiles wonders what else has changed since his untimely death. The pack probably had, and they would not remember him. Stiles just curled up in the corner as Hannibal exited the bathroom, already dressed. 

 

“I’m sorry I can’t make myself real. I tried, I really did, but I’m faded and so damned  _ tired _ and I’m basically talking to no one. ‘Ya know, since you can’t hear me shit stick.” Stiles said calmly, closing his eyes and ignoring the world for just a moment; the first time he did this, he lost years of time, shadows his only friend. Although Hannibal could hear him sometimes, the effects of ‘sleep’ might still take hold. Maybe Stiles can finally rest. Stiles sighed, the darkness staying at the end of his vision, which made Stiles snarl. “ _ Fucking take me already. _ ” Stiles hissed into the air, the darkness receding further. 

 

Stiles remained awake all night, Hannibal’s breathing his only company. He rolled over, facing the corner, and sang. That was all he could do, but Stiles was tired of  _ singing _ . Talking to no one, not touching anything, fading through the walls. Stiles stood up, pacing around the room and ignoring Hannibal. He went to the Ripper’s bag, forcing it to open, which took longer than he cared to admit. Stiles slowly pulled out Hannibal’s sketching supplies, laying them gently on the bedside table. He started writing on the the drawing of him,  _ REMEMBER ME _ written in all caps at the top. Hannibal wouldn’t appreciate Stiles’ vandalism, but if it got him to remember Stiles, he was willing to face the consequences. 

 

Stiles left the book open, setting in delicately down against Hannibal’s pillow. Stiles sat on the bed and waited for Hannibal to wake up. It took another four hours for Hannibal to wake up, which made Stiles anxious and twitchy. The man responded horribly to the message, picking up the book and throwing it across the room. Stiles sighed, watching Hannibal compose himself and pick up the discarded message. He set it on the bedside table, dressing himself and forgetting about Stiles; Hannibal seemed to be doing that a lot lately. 

 

Following Hannibal and the group of forensics team was boring, Prince and Zeller constantly fighting with Beverly as mediator. Slowly the group stopped talking, walking in silence as they walked to the crime scene. They looked wary of the body they were meant to see, but Stiles didn’t understand  _ why _ . It was a fucking spear wound, not the damn Chesapeake Ripper. Stiles walked ahead, heading towards the house with a symbol on the door. Stiles wondered if the Darach was trying to get attention. Avoiding that area of thought, Stiles walked through the door,  _ Heather _ lying dead on the floor. Stiles gasped, ignored the overflowing emotions to look around. Some officers were there, but Parrish was not.  _ Where was the Hellhound when Stiles needed him? _

 

Stiles walked back out, the group heading inside as he departed. Stiles would wait, he had almost all the time in the world. Actually, as it turns out, Stiles didn’t need to wait. Ten minutes after Stiles sat down, the posse headed out, a shaky Will and laughing Zeller making Stiles roll his eyes. Zeller irritated him, reminding him of Jackson The Jackass. Maybe Stiles was projecting, or maybe Stiles was right, since Hannibal’s tense shoulders told him of the cannibal’s annoyance. The walked to Stiles’ favorite diner, the walls repainted and floors renewed, making the place look less like a dumpster fire. Stiles could smell the food, reminding him of home, and sighed. He didn’t look at any of the people, instead choosing to sit down at a table far away from Hannibal. Stiles was ready to fade away, be forgotten, if it meant he could finally see his father. Stiles wonders if he’ll end up in Hell; Stiles deserved to spend an eternity of pain. He sighed, staring at the floor and wondering how the bite went  _ wrong _ . A table quieted, hush whispers suddenly filling the room. The sound of high heels echoed in the small area, making the rest of the customers quiet. Slowly the room filled with chatter as someone seated themselves in front of him. He ignored them, twisting his stupid sleeves as he tapped his foot. 

 

“You never could stop fidgeting, could you?” Her voice rang out, softer from years of laughter, and Stiles looked up. Lydia’s hair was faded, grey hair streaking inside red, and crows feet around her eyes. She looked happy,  _ healthy _ after all these years. Stiles choked out, “ _ Lydia.” _ As the woman smiled. “We can all see you. Come to our table, and we can talk.” Stiles smiled brightly, standing up excitedly as Lydia led him to the biggest table booth in the diner. Scott, Isaac, Derek, Erica, Boyd, Peter, and Cora sat there, Peter older but still looked young. Stiles smiled at the group, receiving similar expressions in return. “Mom.” Isaac choked out, reaching as if to grab him. He paused, but Stiles reached forwards, grabbing his hand and holding it at Isaac’s side. Everyone moved over, giving him room to sit near the pup, before sitting down. 

 

They talked, how they saved the nemeton from itself, found Cora, and defeated alpha pack. Now the Darach was after them, and she wanted revenge for not being able to kill the alpha pack. Erica and Boyd had a son, Scott and a kitsune named Kira had triplets, and Isaac and Derek finally fucked. The least surprising was Peter marrying Chris, the men’s UST was suffocating when Stiles was younger. Jackson was dating Danny and Ethan in London, and Lydia was engaged to Parrish. They all had their happy ever after with two point five kids and a white picket fence, and Stiles envied them. He wasn’t jealous, just dreadful. He dug his grave, and now he has to lay in it. 

 

“Mieczysław.” Scott said, tapping his foot from under the table. Stiles broke out of his stupor, apologizing and smiling. He could see the  _ happiness _ in their features, and Stiles couldn’t fault them for it. Stiles attention was dragged from him when Hannibal walked to the table, calmly and with purpose. 

 

“I apologize for listening in on a private conversation, but I heard you say Mieczysław, correct?” Hannibal asked the table, eyes focused on Scott. The man nodded, breaking out a toothy grin at the killer. Stiles told them everything, and from Scott’s grin, he was about to say something absolutely fucking stupid. 

 

“I did. You've been ignoring him for awhile, so i’m surprised you care.” Scott’s voice was cold, deceptive against the happy, carefree smile he wore like a badge. Hannibal’s eyes narrowed at Scott, a clear warning which made Isaac join in. “Scott’s really protective of him, and we all are. He’s like my mom, and we just hate the fact that you haven’t acknowledged he existed until now.” Isaac said, ignoring Hannibal’s glare and continuing, “But if you can’t handle the fact that he’s real, you should forget him. What you’re doing is hurting him.” Stiles’ pup said, making Stiles cuff him  _ hard _ in the back of his head. The man basically flew forwards, body rattling the table as he whined, “ _ Stiles, _ don’t do that.” 

 

Stiles smiled brightly while Isaac glared, which made the whole table smile. 

 

“Might I inquire how you know...Stiles?” Hannibal said, faux innocent and trying to test their knowledge. Stiles smirked as Scott replied, pointing to each friend as he told the almost simplistic story. Hannibal looked shocked that the table  _ knew _ about Stiles, which made him want to scream. The tension was broken by Scott’s phone ringing, which he answered in favor of having a staring contest with Hannibal. 

 

“Hey. What? Again? I’ll be there soon.” Scott said, hanging up the phone. “That was Kira, apparently Ito fried the power breaker….Again.” He said, sighing as the group got up to let him leave. Scott shook hands with Hannibal, crushing the cannibal’s hand in his own. “Call me sometime. I’d like to see Stiles again.” Scott handed him a business card for the animal clinic, which was a clear warning Hannibal heard. He nodded, smiling at the alpha before turning back to the group.

 

“I believe it is my time to leave, so thank you for answering my questions.” The pack answered with goodbyes, waving but never offering their hands. Hannibal nodded, walking back towards his table as Stiles stood up. “I better go with him.” Stiles explained, the pack nodding and smiling as he left to sit near the Ripper. He didn’t sit with him, but next to his table, ignoring the conversation in favor of watching his fingers grown in color. He used to be monochromatic, all black, greys, and whites, but suddenly his hand showed brown freckles and pink tinted fingers. Stiles smiled, wiggling them around before relaxing. 

 

Hope was a dangerous thing, which Stiles held onto with both hands. He had a chance, and he was gonna milk it for all it was worth. 

 

The walk was tedious, Hannibal subconsciously projecting his discomfort and making Stiles pissed. He had seen Hannibal shove bread down a man’s lung because Hannibal considered him a horrible baker, and now Hannibal’s concerned. Stiles thought about  _ actually  _ punching the cannibal, but decided against it last minute. Maybe scaring Hannibal might do it, just to ease Stiles’ frustration. Stiles decided on that course of action, picking up a small pebble and chucking it at Hannibal’s calf. Stiles laughed as Hannibal stopped, looking suspiciously around, trying to find a reasonable explanation. Too bad Hannibal didn’t fully believe in ghosts, lest Stiles be  _ fucking  _ seen. 

 

Hannibal walked and talked on the phone to The Toy, reassuring the man of his sanity and manipulating him at the same time. Stiles considered throwing Hannibal’s phone at a rock. Maybe that was rash, but Stiles just wanted Hannibal to acknowledge his existence, even if he does try some sort of seance to get another ghost to kill him. Ignorant ghosts were vicious, and Stiles had protected Hannibal from the spirits even though it had cost him  _ three months  _ worth of healing; growing an arm back from that injury was tiring and totally worth it. 

 

They walked into the motel, Hannibal standing in the center of the room unmoving.  _ Goody _ . Stiles sighed and stood behind Hannibal, excited by the tense shoulders and taller stance.  _ Hannibal knew he was there _ . Stiles lightly blew across Hannibal’s neck, watching the man shivered. Stiles was vibrating with excitement, the thought of Hannibal speaking to him like a drug. 

 

“Miec- Stiles?” Hannibal’s reluctance was clear, showing through by his error. Stiles jumped, getting making a loud  _ bang  _ that had Hannibal walking away from his previous thoughts. “This is insanity.” Hannibal stated, grabbing at his charcoal. Stiles hissed, actually hissed, as Hannibal ignored him. “Stop being a dick and fucking talk to me, you pompous twat.” Stiles snapped at Hannibal, walking towards the serial killer and plopping down next to him. The bed bent under his weight and creaked while Hannibal tilted his head. 

 

“I believe you have just cussed me out.” Hannibal stated evenly, his voice a rough purr of irritation and anticipation. Stiles slowly leaned towards the man, “Bet I fucking did.” Stiles said, just trying to get Hannibal pissed off. Angry Hannibal was a sight to behold, after all. The man responded to his uncouth behavior with a shift away from his, slowly putting distance between him and Stiles. “What, scared? I was scared when you  _ forgot me _ , but whatever.” Stiles stated evenly, throwing his hands in the air as he laid back on the bed. Said bed creaked and bent under his weight, leaving him with the smallest piece of hope. Fuck hope.

 

Hannibal stared at the dent in the bed, lightly reaching his hand high above it. He gently put his hand down, stopping at Stiles’ chest. The ghost squinted at Hannibal, breathing deeply as he watched Hannibal’s hands shake. He put pressure on Stiles’ chest, trying to get through it, but unable to. Hannibal hummed, pretending to be unaffected, as he pulled his hand up and  _ slammed it down and Stiles’ chest _ . The apparition groan in discomfort, able to feel Hannibal’s palm dig into his ribs. “I believe I am going insane.” Hannibal stated to his hand, quickly putting it back in his lap; Stiles scoffed at Hannibal’s comment. “You’re going insane? I can’t touch  _ anything _ , and can barely  _ talk to anyone _ .” 

 

Hannibal looked contrite, played the part well, before his face fell into something more grim. “How do I know if you’re real? You could be a figment of my imagination, created by stress or disease.” And that pissed Stiles off. He knew Hannibal was trying to be rational, coming up with a better alternative than being haunted by the man he once considered his brother. Stiles sighed, using his very old powers to grab Hannibal’s hand. The man tensed, surprised at the speed at which Stiles moved. Stiles pulled his hand towards himself, pushing up the sleeve. Stiles bite his forearm, deep enough to draw blood, light enough as to not require stitches. Hannibal did not look amused. The cannibal pulled his arm back, flexing his forearm and inspecting to bite. “I could’ve done this to myself.”

 

“Not at this angle; too close to the elbow.” Stiles said lightly, inching closer. Face to face with Hannibal, Stiles bopped him on the nose. Hannibal pulled back in annoyance at his behavior, scowl firmly place on his stupidly perfect face. “Is there any other proof that does not require violence?” Stiles hummed lightly, playing up his part as an asshole before standing from his crouched position. Stiles walked through the door of the hotel in consideration. His smile spread, excited at the new idea. It was possible and passable, which made Stiles’ mood brighter. 

 

“Talk to Graham, and if he sees what I can do then I’m real.” Stiles said lightly. “Blame it on his hallucinations.” He added as an afterthought, knocking on the brown wood door. He waited for Hannibal to stand, the man fixing his suit and bandaging the small wound. Stiles still had the mouth of a sixteen year old, which meant the wound wasn’t too deep. Stiles considers punching Hannibal for the fuck of it, but tossed the idea out of his mind. Best not to piss off the serial killer  _ more _ , after all. Stiles broke out of his thoughts as Hannibal walked to Will’s hotel room, three doors down. The place looked like someone smoked too many cigarettes inside the hallway, yellow walls and brown doors. Hannibal seemed irritated but the owners decor choices. 

 

Watching Hannibal interact with Will was amusing, the man spouting theories on who was killing the people of BH, not  _ what _ . Scott could handle it, and from what he’s seen, Scott would do well. Peter as the left hand was a smart choice, even in his older age. Seventy-nine, if Stiles remembers correctly. He probably looked fifty, the douche bag. Stiles broke out of his thoughts as Hannibal waved his hand, which Stiles took as a go ahead. He walked around the small room, spotting a book. Slamming it down on the bedside table, Stiles watched as Will paused mid sentence to look at the book. Stiles walked back to Hannibal, sitting on the floor near the man. Will asked if Hannibal heard the noise, which Hannibal said no with concern in his voice. What a lovely actor. 

 

The conversation was cut short after Stiles’ interruption, which meant more time to convince Hannibal he was real. Maybe Stiles could just fade away, finally give up, accept the hell that awaited him. Maybe satan would look like Peter, or maybe Hell was Helheim; millions of religions’ with millions’ of versions’ of hell. Stiles wonders if Hell was fire, or if it was ice. Maybe he’d make it to Heaven, or be reincarnated. Maybe Stiles was finally willing to leave. Hannibal lightly tapped on the table, impatient, as Stiles was brought back to reality. “Are you still here, Stiles?” Hannibal sounded reserved, which was rude, yet Stiles answered by knocking on the wall. 

 

“Do you look the same.” Hannibal asked, trying to be reasonable. Stiles hummed in agreement, unwilling to talk now, sitting down in a armchair in the corner. Hannibal asked where he was, to which Stiles lifted up a pen to show his position. He was tired and every movement felt like too much, his arms heavy and thoughts racing. He’d fade soon, for a week at most, from using up so much energy. Stiles tapped the pen against the chair before putting it down, touching his shoulder. It was always bloody, a bite wound torn from the Nogitsune freeing himself from Scott’s jaw. Stiles should’ve stayed dead, given up before he met Hannibal. The thought of darkness seemed so appealing. 

 

“Do you no longer wish to speak with me?” Hannibal asked, real concern. Stiles hummed before whispering a soft no, putting pressure on the wound. Blood rushed to his hand, lightly running down his shoulder to his collarbone. It would fade, but the stickiness of clotting blood would keep his grounded for the rest of their conversation. Hannibal sighed lightly, slowly taking off his formal jacket before folding it and setting it at the bottom of the bed. “It is ten o'clock.” hannibal stated obviously, Stiles snortin at his comment. Hannibal paused before he continued, “I will get ready to rest, and we may speak in the morning.” Stiles sighed loudly, lightly tapping against the armchair. 

 

“I won’t be here. It takes energy to interact, and I’ve used it all up.” Stiles said, scratching at his shoulder. Hannibal paused as he unbuttoned his shirt, looking over his shoulder in the general area Stiles was at. “Then we may speak when you return.” 

 

“Of course.” Stiles responded, watching the shadows grow and caress his skin. Stiles stood, dizzy and disoriented as he walked towards the largest shadow in the room. It waltzed in front of Stiles, temping him to step forwards, and Stiles smiled. “Until then.” He stated. 

 

Stiles walked into the shadows, blissful at the cold caress. He will see Hannibal again, even if it tore his soul into shreds. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://len0306a.tumblr.com)
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> Your kudos convince Hannibal to admit Stiles is real, and your comments make Stiles grow fond of the mongoose. 
> 
> Lena/Lee


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